


It's better now

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-20
Updated: 2007-06-20
Packaged: 2019-01-19 03:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12402315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Remus' POV - doesn't feel well after Sirius' death. Slash.





	It's better now

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
Author's notes: 1  


* * *

It’s better now

 

**_And I know you're always waiting for me  
You take me far away  
And I know you're holding me  
And it's better now . . .  
And it's better now . . .  
And it's better now . . . _**  
\---

Grey clouds were now veiled by the night's haze. Black birds croaked as though devil himself was right behind them.  
The little breeze of warmth had gone for a coolness the inhabitants of London hardly knew - when there was a really cool out there, it would be predicted by the weather forecast, so they could prepare themselves.   
But this time, as funnily as it may have been, it was different.   
And the always existing fear of humans to avoid the unknown now was revealed once again. The lively londoner streets decayed this evening and there was barely more left as the cruel coolness outside that scared them.   
The coolth had a bitter aftertaste of desperation, grieve and sorrow.   
Of solitude, malodour, hatred.   
Of regret, revulsion, greed, fear and horror.

Little children dared to take a tiny look outside the veiled windows, first staring into the sky and fearing there would be the worst storm they'd ever get to know.   
When they got bored by looking up at the slightly starry sky (the stars were concealed by a thick coat of grey clouds, mixed with black and foul, so foul) their eyes darted downwards to the deserted streets.   
Every single of those children was expecting to see nothing more than gray and damp walls, broken bricks and seemingly deceased pets that were abandoned by their self-seeking, self-proclaimed "owners", but their expectations got sorely disappointed.  
What they saw made them lightly dazed.  
There was a single man - or was it a man? You couldn't tell because he was all disguised in robes that were too big for him - lurking across the street. He fitted perfectly well to the fuzzy and distorted picture he was inside.  
Most of the children now were really frightened and the curiosity to find out more about this funny man walking outside when every minute there just was to be a storm or something, made them shivering and finally disappearing behind the curtains.  
Nevertheless, there was only one little boy, far too curious for his age, still staring at this man in an agitation he couldn't understand. "Jeff, it's eating time!", called the boy's mother from the kitchen and the boy replied with "Mum, mum, mum, come here!". His voice was strangely bewildered. His mother was worried, so she came right over and went straight up to her little son. "Darling, what are you doing?", she asked and kneeled down beside him, stroking his hair. As he didn't answer she just followed his gaze and stiffened. "What, in the world..."  
Actually there was nothing wrong with a man walking down a deserted street -- hadn't it been this man.  
His once hazel brown hairs now fell in few curtains over his face, signed with lot areas of gray. One couldn’t say if he was as dishevelled as the street looked like. Referring to his hairs, he was. He mustn’t have washed them for one, or maybe even two, weeks. His once smooth skin was traversed by wrinkles and scars all over.  
The two silent watchers couldn't tell if this man was drunk; his movements didn't apply with it. He was walking abnormally downright, and yet his face was somehow blurred, fuzzed and seemed unreal. It was as if they'd been set out in a nightmare.  
There was no expression on the man's face; he could also have been a strolling dead.   
Though he was disguised in robes too big for him, one could see he looked gauntly when the wind blew and the robes clattered against his body. The robes shaped a body that seemed unnatural and unhealthy the same time. He was too thin; one plain look could tell that. He was painful thin. His face was all white; he was pale as a ghost. His rims under the eyes were still underscored by shadows. A resurrected dead, a living ghost.

When the mother pulled back her child, her eyes now widened with fear and horror, with mourning and anxiety, she gasped inside. She drew the curtain and sent her son to the living room to finally eat to dinner.   
She however stood a moment in silence. There was one question urging up inside her inner parts.  
 _What_ , she thought, _what in the world could shatter a person so very and doom it to a misery, beyond all measure?_  
What must have happened to this man?

 

When the curtain drew back, the man looked back over his shoulder and his cap fell down.   
The man smiled.  
It looked horrible.

_Poor beings._

They had no idea… what misery and damnation were like.  
What it felt like.

He did.

The man gave a soft giggle and turned his head back to the empty alleyway that stretched itself in front of him.

He knew they were watching; people always did when he was close.   
That was nothing special about.  
Not anymore.

With laughing about the goodness of the world he took a few steps, not noticing, that, as he did so, a few loosen, hard raindrops were falling down on the dreadful and colourless earth.

\- - -

As he walked on and on, away from the civilisation, he felt his inner wall falling and he knew that he failed.  
He hurried.  
Just a few more steps, he told himself, not that long anymore, keep going and don’t think…  
But, well, for him it had always been hard to not think.   
Thinking was part of his personality, part of his trait, part of himself. He couldn’t just stop doing so without any consequence.  
But given to the past incidences he taught himself not to think. It was hard, but it worked.  
He simply turned off his mind, stared blankly through the air and felt nothing.   
It was hard, but it worked. Though the consequence was that he was totally clinical.  
Again he smiled.   
_Not thinking, huh, he told himself. For thinking nothing I know very well what’s - -_  
Right there he stopped and slapped himself inwardly.  
Stop thinking.

 

Now he was simply moving on, staring down at the ground.   
He didn’t notice he had gone into a wood.   
The copsewood cracked under his hurrying steps, there was susurration coming from bushes.  
As if they sang lyrics for lost lovers.  
The gigantic tree trunks were barring his way and he had to equivocate and react quickly to not collide and crash into them. He managed well, as he managed everything finely and well.  
The crowns of the trees were whispering loudly. At first they were somewhat gently, comforting and he felt well and nearly thankful. But after a moment’s haze they grew hysterically in his eyes, rushing, snarling, snaring and craving, trying to push him to the edge.   
How could they? He was still in control of himself. Of course he was.

…  
Was there any other opinion?

The man gave a soft shudder and a stern look to the trees, as though they were strangers that stared at him embarrassingly and without respect.   
The trees stared back.  
Growling _we’ll hunt you, we’ll chase you to death._  
They were laughing. The sky was contemptuous.  
The animals were waiting for food. They were starving and waiting for him to lose his mind.  
When would he stop straying?, because that’s what he did now. Straying without any sense. Stepping hysterically, stumbling, rushing. _Fearing._  
They smelt his fear.  
 _We’re hungry. Famishing._  
The trees continued staring.   
_We’ll get you._

He gave a loud scream, flailed around.   
The scream echoed from every corner of the wood, reverberating at its perpetrator in full tones of rage, lunacy, death and condolement.   
He tried to find a way out of this gloomy and dark surrounding, but he failed again.  
He was trapped and they would come.

When he stumbled another time, now almost drowning himself because he ran too fast for his own condition, his back crashed against a tree that stood on a glade.   
He griped at his chest, squeezing so ferocious that he gasped, and pressed his eyes together.  
He suddenly realised that his eyes hurt as well — he had cried, spilt so many tears since he left London. His eyes were read, swollen and burning. He thought that every single tear drop hated him; they daggered him badly.  
His whole clothing was soaked. It had rained really hard.  
And he hadn’t noticed.

He simply sat there, one hand still gripping his chest as if he tried to tear out his scattered heart and with one hand he held his forehead. The weight of his thoughts, of his minds and feeling seemed to be too heavy to be carried by just his neck.

He knew he lost the game.  
He knew he had given up, long ago, somewhere along the way.

His own scream still hunted him and from the edges and corner of the glade, behind the bushes and giant trees there were narrowed slits, glaring at him. Waiting for him.  
He did not fear them.

He laughed out loudly. Hysterically, frantically.  
He could not stop it, because that was what he was.  
He was frantic.  
And he could not deny it.

This was what fate had made of him.

Remus John Lupin did not know how long he sat there.   
He simply knew, had he had a knife, had he had a rope, had he had his wand, had he had anything - - he would have killed himself.

He did not dare to use his own hands, because these were the hands that once touched his lover.

And he did not dare to pollute them more as he already had.

Sirius Black was dead; dead as Remus Lupin was.

And in silent hiccoughing, confusing babbling, sobbing hardly, Remus felt his heart die.

The last thing he thought he saw was Sirius’ face.

 

__**And I know you're always waiting for me  
You take me far away  
And I know you're holding me  
And it's better now . . .  
And it's better now . . .  
And it's better now . . .**


End file.
